


A Fixed Point in the Sky

by SalaciousCrumble



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aerospace industry, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aspirational space travel, Dogs, Dubious Science, Engineering, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Humor, M/M, Math-themed business casual, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Workplaces that don't suck, rockets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalaciousCrumble/pseuds/SalaciousCrumble
Summary: "Mr. Effen," the letter in his briefcase read. "We at Resistance Rockets are pleased to officially invite you to join our team, in the role of Project Manager: Flight Dynamics."Finn escapes First Order Aerospace and lands at Resistance Rockets. Things go better than he dreamed possible when he finds a family, his calling, and just maybe, a place in the galaxy.Then Phasma finds him.





	1. Resistance Rockets

_Mr. Effen_ , the letter in his briefcase read.

_We at Resistance Rockets are pleased to formally invite you to join our team, in the role of PROJECT MANAGER: FLIGHT DYNAMICS._

_As discussed, your starting salary will be—_

Not exactly comparable to Finn’s last job, and possibly less than he should have asked for, considering there were already four Teslas occupying the lot at 7:15 on a Monday morning. They’d probably been bought while their owners still worked in Silicon Valley, before they cashed out in favor of doing something they loved. Still, they seemed a little incongruous, parked neatly below the shabby-looking shade trees breaking apart the asphalt furthest from the building.

Finn snapped and unsnapped a latch on his briefcase, occupying the passenger seat.

It wasn’t like he’d even considered negotiating on salary when he got the call. (Although when the caller ID came up, he might have tried negotiating a little with God.) It was all he could do to remember the right things to say, and then keep it together until his rather shaky thumb found the “end call” icon.

He’d set his phone on the kitchen counter prior to sock-surfing the hallway parquet, which was in turn followed by opening the buried bottle of wine he’d received at Christmas (awful, and requiring his neighbor’s opener), and calling every other person in his frequent contacts list. That hadn’t taken long.

It was also the one time he’d been careless, letting the wine get the better of him—two unfortunate social media posts using his new accounts. But he’d been so careful, so cautious since leaving First Order, and after the news...that night, Finn celebrated. Nothing bad had come of it, yet.

_Please find enclosed a description of benefits—_

Not listed: the benefit of _not working for First Order_ anymore.

Finn watched from the corner of his eye as a red and grey motorcycle growled to a halt in the parking space to his left. The rider killed the engine, heeled down the stand, pulled off their gloves, and undid the chin straps on their helmet—all while Finn watched like a weirdo from his still ticking, stuffy Civic.

He grabbed his phone from the cupholder and grimaced at it thoughtfully and professionally. _Yes, yes, important industry business, much to attend to_ —

Phasma had posted a few cat Vines on Twitter, which was one of the few places he could anon-stalk her and Nines.

He did miss them, a little.

Finn glanced sidelong at the bike beside him, at the swoop of “Triumph” proclaimed on the gas tank. He knew next to nothing about motorcycles, but recognized the name because Phasma owned one. He’d ridden on the back a few times, a different model in green and gold.

The woman heading toward the entrance clad in a full leather jacket, jeans, and boots, despite what would be a typical sweltering day, was far more captivating than someone who’d just taken off a full-face helmet had any right to be. There was something self-assured in her posture and short stride—in the lean but obvious muscles of her legs.

He didn’t have a type—he had half a dozen types—but he definitely had a thing for tough, high-IQ women. Phasma wasn’t the first he’d gone out with. And odds were, at a place like Resistance, everyone who worked inside the low-slung concrete building before him was both brilliant and exceptionally capable. Single was required; attractive was a matter of perspective.

Finn flipped his worn-out briefcase latches a few more times, then took out his letter.

_We have your start date listed as—_

Today, at 9:00. But who could fault him for arriving two hours early? Possibly a lot of people, which was why he’d opted for sitting in his rapidly heating car until at least 7:30.

_If you have any questions, please contact K.K. Connix at 915-450-5555._

_We look forward to seeing you, and welcome aboard!_

Locking and unlocking his phone, he finally opened the NPR app and scrolled through the news without really paying attention. Local elections. California was still in a drought. Salt was bad for you again. So interesting.

Sighing, he tried diligently to focus on the names and places, in case he needed to demonstrate his sophistication and knowledge of current events to someone at the water cooler.

7:19. Finn looked at his briefcase on the seat beside him, then down at his crisp white shirt and tan slacks.

“Should have worn the pi tie,” he muttered. Twenty minutes picking out his neckwear, analyzing what his choice of tie might say about him, and he’d gotten it all wrong. Should have gone with his gut instinct and worn his _favorite_ math tie. The runner-up stashed in his briefcase pocket wasn’t any better.

He wondered if the attractive motorcycle woman was seeing anyone, and if she liked math-themed business casual. Probably saw a lot of it at the office.

Finn drained the last of his coffee—they’d written “Fawn” on the cup, seriously, how—and tossed the cardboard sleeve onto the passenger seat to recycle later. The cup itself was barely lukewarm; the drive to work via the Starbucks closest to his new apartment was 32 minutes this morning. It was 26 minutes yesterday, on a Sunday, when he’d test-driven the route.

By the time he’d memorized a few factoids about the economic situation in Chile, there were at least two dozen cars in the parking lot, and the fuzzy beige fabric against his back was getting hot.

It was July 11th, 2016 at 7:25 am, a date and time which would live in his memory—Finn thought grandly—as the first hour of the first day at the job that would change his life. A job that would wipe away the smear of First Order Aerospace forever.

 _Yes, thank you, Ms. Gross, I’m delighted to be here_. Finn replied to Terry Gross of NPR in his head, sharing a polite, knowing smile with her. _During that first month on the job, I knew we were going to do great things_.

Nope, cheesy. Do-over. _I had no idea what we were in for, but I knew it was going to be big. My role was technically Project Manager, but I—_

A bright green Prius, clearly a custom paint job, screeched to a halt in the parking space to his right, the thrash metal from its speakers assaulting Finn’s modest sedan. The guy inside threw his head forward a few more times before he turned the key, yanking his backpack off the passenger seat. He continued to nod aggressively while rifling through it for something.

Finn scowled, still thoughtfully and professionally, at a puzzle game on his phone until the man had slammed his door, stepped onto the crumbling sidewalk, and badged in through the nearly opaque front door. All the building’s windows were tinted, not just for security, but against the oppressive heat. The solar panels on top winked in the morning light.

So far, the only flaw in Finn’s plan to arrive early was that he didn’t have a badge. If there was a receptionist, they didn’t appear to be in yet. He could try to tailgate after someone, but that could get awkward fast, since he had no idea if K.K. Connix, sole H.R. rep, was present yet.

 _Let me tell you about that first day, Terry._ A little smarmy, but he recovered. _I was so excited to be there, I arrived two hours early and took an entire minute just deciding where to park_.

He’d decided on the space adjacent to Visitor 1, which the green Prius now occupied at a haphazard angle. Finn was not Visitor 2, however; that spot was to the right of the handicapped spaces. No, Finn was non-visitor number one. New employee number one.

 _So you were hired at the relatively young age of 25 to be a project manager at a major aerospace company_ , Terry said pleasantly. _Tell us what that was like_.

Finn called it at 7:30. Grabbing his briefcase, he followed the clear trend by rolling down the windows on the Civic a few inches before locking it. He put a hand on the hood of his car to savor the moment, and maybe to slow his heartbeat.

 _I was working with incredibly smart people all day, five—sometimes six—days a week, on something I loved. It was amazing. Utterly amazing. And I was safe_.

 _What do you mean by that? Safe?_   Of course Terry had latched onto that. But by then, Finn could talk about it.

At the door, Finn pressed the intercom below the Resistance name and logo. Nobody answered. He stood around for a minute, contemplated going back to his car, examined the crepe myrtle blossoms near the door, buzzed once more, and pulled out his phone to swipe through NPR again.

He jumped when the door behind him opened with a loud _click_. A svelte woman in jeans and a tee stood in the draft of cool air from inside, blocking the entrance while still holding the door open. Something about her stature gave her away as Triumph Woman, and he’d been right; she was beautiful.

“Can I help you?” She asked, in a slightly skeptical voice. Her tone surprised him a little. A man standing on the doorstep of a remotely-located business at 7:30 on a Monday morning in slacks and a tie. Did she think he was selling something?

He leveled his best charming smile at his new coworker. “Yes, I’m here to see K.K. Connix. I’m Franklin, the new project manager for the flight dynamic group.” It was hard not to deflate when she noticeably paused before accepting his handshake. She didn’t offer her name.

“Ah. Well, she’s not in yet—probably not until nine or so. I suppose you could wait in her office.” Her nose wrinkled as if the situation were less than ideal, but she’d resigned herself.

“That’d be great, thanks.” Finn caught the door as she moved back, following her into the office. He took it all in again: softly humming fluorescent lights; LED frames rotating through a collection of Resistance test photos; and freshly waxed linoleum that squeaked under his dress shoes, just like he remembered from his on-site interview.

He’d _arrived_. New job, new state, new life. No more First Order bullshit. From then on, it was just regular bullshit for Franklin Effen.

The richly paneled reception desk, clean as a whistle but for a stand of business cards, waited at the end of the hall under the emblem and slogan: _Sequitur ut stellas_. Finn’s chaperone hung a left at the desk and took him to a door he remembered from three weeks prior. K.K.’s office was locked.

“Damn.” His chaperone wrinkled her nose again in distaste. Others might have asked, _Did you have an appointment_? or _Would you like to sit at reception to wait, because you seem inherently trustworthy, well-dressed man who showed up ridiculously early on a Monday morning_? Instead, she said, “I’ve got work to do. Do you mind if I drop you with one of the engineers until she gets in?”

“Uh, no, that’d be fine, thank you,” Finn said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name—”

“Rey,” she said simply. “I work in the main lab.”

“Nice to meet you, Rey. I like your bike.”

She perked up a little. “Oh, do you ride?”

“No, I...not anymore.” _What?_ “I had a Triumph before, a nice chrome and gold one, but I sold it.” _Smooth, bro._

“I see.”

It could have been his imagination, but Finn thought he detected a hint of a smile on Rey’s face at his obvious gaffe. Maybe she thought he’d actually intended to make her laugh.

“You said you were in flight dynamics?” After he’d nodded, she lead the way. “Let’s go see if anyone on your team is in.”

“I interviewed with Wesley Antilles and Asoka Tano,” Finn supplied. There’d been a group interview with the rest of his presumptive team, as well, to see if he was a good fit. That one, he’d worn his pi tie to, where it had been generally well-received.

“Ah,” Rey responded again, non-committal.

Finn followed her back up the hall past the reception desk and front door. He made a mental map as they hung a left, then a right after the bathrooms, and finally stood at the top of a wide, short flight of stairs that dropped into the huge workspace beyond.

Early morning light filtered in through the tinted smaller windows which lined the east and south walls. Intermittent office flair tied to exposed piping and insulation shivered in the path of oversized air conditioning vents. The only difference between this morning and Finn’s interview day was an expectant quiet; the building itself slowly waking and preparing for the frenzied activity during the day. The hush permeated the warren of low cubicles stretched before him, which were mostly empty save for a few early risers hunched over their computers.

Rey lead them down the largest aisle to about midway through the cavernous space, pausing to check the nametag on a semi-transparent plastic divider. Unlike First Order, none of the cubes at Resistance were higher than Finn’s ribcage, and he wasn’t an especially tall man.

Here, he’d been told during his interview, communication and collaboration were highly valued. Shorter walls would facilitate that. So would the round tables and soft chairs scattered throughout that separated the cubes into clusters.

Finn wondered if he’d just feel more conspicuous.

The sound of frenetic typing finally overtook the silence as he and Rey approached the cube of a petite, dark-haired woman. Her desk was absolutely covered by toys—half the ThinkGeek catalog could be found within her 7x7-foot workspace. She didn’t pause in her rapid-fire typing, and Rey didn’t interrupt her.

Finn tried not to fidget while this state of affairs continued for about ten seconds, before the woman abruptly swivelled to face them with a creak of her chair.

“‘Sup, Rey?”

Rey angled herself to one side to gesture at Finn. “Jess, this is Franklin, the new Flight Dynamics P.M. K.K. isn’t in yet, and I don’t see Wes, so…”

“Asoka’s not in either? Scratch that, she’s in Houston.” She glanced from Rey to him, and Finn stuck out his hand with another winning smile. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

Jess had to lean all the way over to shake, her legs folded up within the confines of her chair. Finn took a step forward to accommodate. Her grip was sure and firm.

“Jessika Pava, with a ‘k.’ Nice to meet you too, Franklin—?”

“Effen. Franklin Effen.” Not quite _Bond, James Bond_ , but he was stuck with it.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? School must have been fun for you.”

“It’s an alias. I’m on the run from the law. I’m a scofflaw.” Deflecting came as naturally as breathing, now. Humor, especially mediocre humor, was a great defense—it just had to be boring enough to be forgettable. Nobody gave it a second thought.

“Yeah, okay.” Jessika said. “Well, I’m not on your team, Franklin Scofflaw, but for the time being, if you want to sit at that desk over there and fuck around with his stuff, you’re welcome.”

Finn turned to look at the desk in question, upon which a month’s worth of empty energy drinks were stacked in an elaborate pyramid. “Whose stuff, exactly?”

“Oh, that’s Snap’s desk. He’s in flight software, but he does some solid mechanics, response modeling stuff, too. And he fixes Roombas.” She said it like the sheer scope of those responsibilities wasn’t a big deal. “Your manager is Wes Antilles?” Finn nodded. “He gets in around 8:30 or 9:00, most days. Are you Asty’s replacement?”

He nodded again.

“Cool. Your predecessor was kind-of a dick.”

Finn was grateful that both his first-day jitters and sixteen ounces of over-roasted coffee kept his brain firing on all cylinders. He nodded sagely. “Then I’ll endeavor not to be one. I won’t have to work as hard to seem like a good hire by comparison, so there’s that.”

Rey snorted; Finn just about high-fived himself.

“We’ll see about that,” Jess smirked, but it was playful. “Well, you should probably meet Poe, my current boss. He’s Director of Aero Eng and leads flight testing, so he’ll be in a bunch of your meetings. Or actually, maybe you’ve already met?”

During the interminable week between his final interview and verbal offer, Finn had rehashed every word he’d said to every Resistance employee a dozen times. Naturally, he’d stalked his interviewers through LinkedIn and industry news long before he ever talked to them.

Finn was positive he’d never met Director of Aero Eng Poe.

“Yeah, maybe. Met lots of people,” he said, because preferred margin of error: zero.

“Cool. He might make it in before Wes. Depends on how much Netflix he watched last night.” Jessika released one leg, using her bare toes and the lip of her desk to arduously propel her chair across the aisle into Snap’s space. She pulled an unopened energy drink off a small metal bookshelf. “You want a Monster?”

“I’m good,” Finn said hastily. “Thanks, though.”

“I have to get back to the lab,” Rey declared abruptly, decisively, and maybe a tad uncomfortably. She didn’t strike Finn as someone with an excess of social graces. Not rude, just unpracticed—still learning. He’d known a few people like that, super smart but isolated in their youth. Slip came to mind.

Finn nodded at her, reassuring. “Of course, thanks, Rey. I’ll just wait outside Mr. Antilles’ office until he gets here.”

“Later, Rey,” Jessika—Jess, apparently—called after her retreating form. The Monster cracked open with a hiss and the nauseating smell of artificial tangerine wafted through the air. “It’s shit, but it’s better than coffee.” She shrugged, catching his look.

“Agree to disagree,” Finn said lightly. He sat in the cushy chair in “Snap’s” cube and rolled backward until he could see Jess through the opening. “I know you’re busy, no need to babysit. I’ve got some paperwork, a bunch of H.R. forms,” he lied.

“Yeah, sorry, Franklin. Weird that they told you to show up so early,” she said, re-crossing her legs and picking up her rapid typing right where she’d left off. She had to be edging 100 words per minute.

Finn rolled back up to his borrowed desk and pulled out his phone. He brought up LinkedIn and Google to search for “Wesley Antilles.” Nothing new since his interview; same for “Asoka Tano.”

“Hey, what’s Mr. Poe’s first name?” He called to Jess.

“His first name is Poe. Last name is Dameron. Spelled like ‘dame’ and then ‘ron.’”

“Thanks.” He keyed in on Poe pretty quickly in the search results, given his employment with Resistance and a general narrowing of location. Director of Aerospace Engineering at Resistance Rockets; graduated U.S. Naval Academy, then five more years in the service; Lockheed, then a Masters from UT Austin; two years at NASA, and— _huh_ —most recently, two years at Republica. Republica was a hard company to leave, if you liked money and security.

Finn scrolled through the details and squinted at his picture with a frown. The guy still looked pretty young for all that experience, and for being a department head.

He flicked through Poe’s connections, finding the name “Rey Walker” next to a blank profile picture. Lead Test Engineer, Resistance Rockets. B.S. New Mexico State University.

Resistance was her only listed job, which gave him pause. She was a lead with just a Bachelor’s, and looked even younger than Finn. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Resistance hired kids because they couldn’t attract or retain bigger talent.

Kids like—like Franklin, who was just 25.

He’d taken a big risk, coming here. He should have left the industry completely, should have run further. Should have _tried_ harder, in a lot of ways. Instead, he’d inexplicably sent his resume to a “scrappy” space propulsion company with headquarters outside tiny D’Qar, Texas.

But there was something here. Something he couldn’t put his finger on yet. Sure, Resistance wasn’t ULA, or SpaceX, or Republica, but the founders—one of whom was still CEO—were legendary.

Finn squinted at his phone for another few seconds, then slowly pushed back until he could see into Jess’s cube again. “Was one of your previous job titles actually “Senior Rapscallion of Code” or did you make that up?”

“Hand to God,” she replied, “It actually was. It sounds so clichéd now, like _guru_ or _ninja_ , but I like to think I was the first. The first rapscallion. Hey, you said ‘scofflaw’ earlier, so no shade.”

Finn smiled. “That’s fair. You were what, fourteen at the time?”

“I took over the business. I printed business cards and everything.”

“...with Hello Kitty on them?”

“Transformers,” she said. Her typing ceased and there was a bit of a scuffle, then a red and blue robot appeared above the cube wall. “The real ones. We had these ancient VHS tapes that I watched all the time.” She snorted, and rolled into his line of sight. “All right, clearly you’re not going to let me get any work done. You want a tour?

“I had a walk-through during my interview loop, but sure. Only if you’re not too busy,” he tacked on in a hurry. She’d offered, but it felt like asking for too much. Normally, he’d be more careful about overstepping. Normally, he wouldn’t feel...comfortable.

“Nah, I’m actually just correcting assholes on Reddit.” She reached under her desk for a pair of flip-flops, threading her fingers through the straps rather than putting them on her feet. She also took Finn’s briefcase from him, leaving it behind in her chair.

“So where are you from,” Jess asked, walking ahead of him.

“Scottsdale,” he lied; the city he’d used to flesh out his new social accounts. Nobody was _actually_ from Scottsdale.

“Never been. I thought it was lots of old people, not that I’m against that. I’m originally from L.A., came via Palo Alto. Moved out here about a year ago for the thriving, diverse culture and recreational opportunities. Right, so, kitchen first.”

She rapped her knuckles on a few cube tops to say hello as they passed. More people were trickling into the office, some chipper, and others hunched over from the weight of the bags under their eyes. Finn met quite a few people, but he was good with names; he’d probably remember most of them.

The kitchen was an actual kitchen, fully stocked, with all the usual appliances and industrial-sized fridges and freezers. After a moment, it made sense to him: when you worked at an office on the periphery of nowhere, lunch options were mostly in-house.

“Fruit, bars, instant noodles,” Jess listed, rising up on bare tiptoes as she loudly opened and closed cabinets. “Salty snacks, candy, nuts, special dietary needs—we should probably move that away from the nuts, Nien’s got a walnut allergy—all the healthy options are in the fridge, too. Milk, eggs, veggies, et cetera.”

She pointed out the fridges with free drinks, the kegs in the corner (Finn wasn’t quite sure what that was about), and the half-dozen coffee and tea-making gadgets on the counter. “I’m told the espresso machine isn’t great, but it’s generally considered better than our drip.”

Espresso at work. First Order barely supplied them with powdered creamer.

Jess stopped to make tea, so Finn joined her. He chose a sachet because the sign over the box read, “Tea; Earl Grey; Hot,” which sounded familiar. Like something people like him should know.

He grabbed a mug printed with the company logo, and was in the process of filling it with hot water when two other people entered the kitchen, arguing good-naturedly over something Finn could vaguely place in the realm of fluid dynamics.

“New guy?” One of them asked, laying a hand on Jess’s shoulder. He stood about a foot taller than her, wearing ubiquitous black thick-framed glasses, black skinny jeans, and artfully shaggy hair. “Iolo Arana, fluid dynamics,” he said to Finn, extending a hand.

His companion introduced herself with a soft French accent. “Kare Kun, not to be confused with K.K. I’m in astrodynamics. Fun tie,” she said, gesturing at the space-invaders tie that won earlier, and Finn stood just a little taller. He’d never played the game, but YouTube taught him the name and sounds. It was excellent geek camouflage.

“Franklin. I’m the new P.M. in flight dynamics, Asty’s replacement.”

“Yeah, that guy was a jerk,” Iolo said. “Glad to have you. Asoka said some great things about you.” He swept his hair back from his eyes in what was likely a perpetual battle.

Behind him, Jess was kneeling on the counter to reach snack-sized bags of Cheetos. She tossed one at Kare, who caught it with barely a glance. Jess backed down off the counter with the faint slap of feet hitting the linoleum.

“Asoka?” Finn blinked. He looked between Kare and Iolo. “But, you—sorry, you’re not on my team, are you?”

“Nope,” said Kare, “But we’re really big on communication, here. That’s how you get things done when you don’t have the budget to hire nine people for one position. Speaking of, I’ve heard First Order is like a prison and they never let anyone go. I think you’re our only refugee. You should share some horror stories at the next barbeque.”

“Not sure I want to relive my time there,” Finn spoke the truth with a weak smile.

“I understand—” Kare looked at her companion. “well, hypothetically. Iolo and I were at NASA last. We never got hammered down at Akiva Systems, or anything like that. Talk to Snap about that place sometime.” She waved the bag of chips between them. “Actually, we followed Jess’s current boss, Poe Dameron, here. Great guy to work with. Great friend. Loyalty means a lot to everyone here.”

“I agree with this assessment in its entirety.” Jess said, slinging her arm up and around Kare’s shoulder. Residual Cheeto powder dusted the hem of her black t-shirt where she’d tugged it down. Printed on it in gold was the trendy quote from A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Though she be but little, she be fierce.

“Onward with the tour?” Jess asked him. Her flip-flops were hanging from her fingers again; she’d yet to actually put them on her feet.

Finn nodded. “Nice to meet you both. See you around.”

They proceeded to cover the general layout of the building, with Jess pointing out the restrooms, several coffee stations, and the row of printers.

“That’s Leia’s office,” she said as they rounded a corner. The closed door looked just like all the others, but it could have been very nicely appointed, inside. Finn also took note that Jessika was on a first-name basis with the CEO.

“When I first started here, her brother and co-founder Luke used to swing by sometimes, but he’s been on some kind of weird spiritual journey for like, a year, so I’ve pretty much just written him off.”

Resistance Rockets also had a gym. While it was small and not nearly as high-tech as First Order’s, somehow it felt more inviting. The dozen pieces of equipment were older and well-used, and the place was clean without being sterile. It wasn’t an echoing cavern filled with pristine rows of cardio equipment, or racks upon racks of free weights in front of mirrors. The woman on the treadmill gave them a lazy salute as they stood in the doorway. “Just don’t come in January,” Jess warned Finn. “It smells like pain and desperation, and broken promises.”

They left, and she flapped her hand to indicate a smaller hallway opposite. “And the rec-room’s back that way. Got a pinball machine and table tennis, and a bunch of napping couches, although a) those are always covered in dog hair, and b) recall the location of pinball and table tennis.”

Finn, wary of yet again expressing his relative ignorance, made another note to consult Google later about how often companies provided furniture specifically for sleeping. Couches hadn’t been part of his interview loop. He did, however, remember the words “dog-friendly office.”

“The labs—all one-and-a-half acres of ‘em—are obviously pretty friggin’ awesome, and you should check them out as soon as possible. You just have to be escorted by someone with a red badge for the first few weeks, and stay outta the clean spaces. Rey can get you in, show you around. She’s not really into email or IM, though, especially when she’s working. I can text her, if you want.” Jess held up the Cheetos bag to pour the crumbs into her mouth.

Finn considered it: exploring a one-point-five-acre aerospace facility, filled with millions of dollars of incredibly advanced machining and test equipment, with an interesting, obviously brilliant woman he already had a little crush on.

 _Yes. Yes, please._ “Thanks, let me get back to you. Not sure what my day will be like,” he told Jess instead.

“That’s pretty much it,” she said, nodding in passing to a couple of guys carrying laptops, likely on their way to a meeting. She pulled out her phone. “8:40. Let’s go see if Antilles is in—oh, and we should probably figure out where you sit.”

Finn was a little relieved, and a little nervous, to see that his new boss’s office door was open. Jess knocked on the frame while Finn straightened habitually. “Hey Wes, got a delivery for you.”

“Franklin!” Mr. Antilles rose from his desk, coming around to shake Finn’s hand heartily. “Good to see you, so glad you decided to join us. I’ve been telling everyone how great you are.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m thrilled to be here.”

Mr. Antilles’ smile softened. “Just Wes. I know your last job was with First Order, but Jess should’ve told you we go by our first names here. I may have the final say, but we’re all on the same team. No need for formality.”

Finn was all too aware that using a person’s last name or title didn’t mean you respected them, either. “Thanks. That uh, might take me a day or two to get used to,” he admitted. It was another salient detail which hadn’t come up during the interview.

Nor had what he was coming to understand was a very different dress code. Mr. Antilles—Wesley—Wes—was wearing a simple button-down and slacks. No suit jacket, no tie, no polished shoes. Nobody else he’d met that morning was wearing anything more upscale than designer jeans.

Okay, so tomorrow, Finn would ditch the tie and ironed shirt. Possibly the whole outfit. ...Well, maybe keep the tie for special occasions. Was a barbeque a special occasion at Resistance?

He’d vehemently dispute the term "naive," but his career path post-Army was, to be fair, a single straight track.

“Hey, Scofflaw, I’m heading back to my desk. Swing by anytime,” Jess excused herself. Finn craned his head around the doorjamb as she walked away. “Thank you,” he called after her. “I will!”

He turned back to Wes, who was leaning against the edge of his desk, still smiling pleasantly. He’d been like that during Finn’s interview, too, patient and supportive in a way Finn hadn’t encountered before. As if Resistance _wanted_ him, like they were wooing Finn while he strived to woo them.

“Did you meet with H.R. yet? They probably have something for you to sign. I let helpdesk know to set up your laptop on Friday—hope Windows is okay, didn’t think to ask. You can switch to Linux, or we can probably get you a Macbook if you want.”

Finn realized he was expected to respond. This was starting to feel surreal. “No, thanks, Windows is fine.”

“Great, great. Jess showed you around?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she gave me the full tour, minus the lab. I only have one question...where do I sit?”

Mr. Antilles—Wes—chuckled readily, heartily. “Follow me,” he said. Finn started after him, but halted in surprise when a huge, fluffy white dog scrambled up from behind the desk and bounded after his boss. Wes was already walking backwards down an aisleway. “This is Artoo,” he explained. “He’s actually Luke’s dog, and I’m just holding onto him while he’s away.” He didn’t appear at all concerned that he’d been caring for the dog, if Jess was right, for a year.

Finn followed his new boss and Artoo’s banner of a tail as they waded further into the nest of low cubes. “Here we go,” Wes said, gesturing.

Clipped to the outside of the frosted plastic was a nametag. Finn reminded himself to breathe.

 _Franklin Effen_  
_Project Manager, Flight Dynamics_

The newest version of the Resistance logo was printed like a watermark behind his name. There was a LEGO pirate glued to one corner.

“It’s perfect.” Finn grinned. He had a desk, he had a chair, he had a computer, and a nametag. He had a _pirate_. The start of a new life.

Wes pocketed his phone. “K.K. just emailed. She needs you to come sign your W-2.”

Finn’s elation turned into sour fear, and his heart thumped harder at the mention of official government documents. _Calm down_ , he pleaded with himself. _You have everything you need_.

“Oh, oops—I left my briefcase in Jess’s cube,” he realized. “Let me just...uh...”

“Follow me,” Wes said again with another half-smile. They walked briskly, and this time Artoo traveled ahead of both men in a sort of sideways bounding motion. His tongue lolled out in what Finn presumed was happiness. Nearly everyone they passed in the cramped aisleways had a smile for man, dog, or both; Finn could have sworn he saw someone toss a dog biscuit over the cube wall, but in order to get a better look, he would’ve had to dodge an oncoming man muttering at his laptop in Korean.

Finn heard the jingling of tags nearing the next intersection, and another dog—smaller, rusty orange and white, with a slight curl to its tail—pounced on Artoo as he came into sight. The dogs stopped in the middle of the path for a moment to paw playfully at each other. Wes navigated effortlessly around them, but Finn was left to make his own awkward attempt at a bypass. Dogs were another thing that would take some getting used to.

“Morning, Beebs,” Wes said as he stepped nimbly past, sparing a smile for the interloper. Finn waited until the orange and white one, apparently named Beebs, seemingly got the upper paw, then executed a pretty good spin move around both dogs. He drew up against a poster of some country band he recognized from earlier, and tried to recall how far away Jess was.

“Hey, Wes, did you see the latest from Sung-hee?” Someone else asked from further down the aisle. Finn looked up to see—oh, so _that_ was Poe Dameron. He recognized the man from his earlier search on LinkedIn, but his profile picture had not done him justice. Serious misdemeanor, in fact.

Mr. Dameron—who probably preferred Poe—had his hands occupied by a tablet and a coffee mug, which could explain why he was now holding a croissant in his mouth.

“Not yet. I just got in,” replied Wes. He turned into Poe’s side and inclined his head to read the tablet, before relieving him of it entirely.

Poe tore off a chunk of croissant with his teeth, then balanced the rest across the rim of his mug. “Yeah, me too. I just wanted to get that R-data. I’m still not convinced there wasn’t something wrong with the prelim,” he said around his breakfast. When he looked up at Finn, presumably to include him in the conversation, his expression brightened considerably.

Finn looked at the croissant and the mug and tried to ignore his newly discovered and confusing feelings of envy toward a pastry.

“Oh, hey, you must be Franklin! Wes has been saying good things about you.” He switched his coffee to his left hand and held out his right to shake. Finn wondered if he was left-handed; he’d been using the tablet with his left, and then he’d held the croissant with it. “Welcome to Resistance,” Poe said warmly.

“Thanks,” said Finn. “I’m really glad to be here. Uh, Jess, and Kare, and Yo—Iolo—they said really good things about you...too.” About halfway through the sentence, Finn’s prefrontal cortex issued a recall, but the conflict between _too personal_ and _he has nice eyes_ caused him to lag. “Too” arrived about five seconds late.

“Oh, you’ve met some of my people.” Poe grinned at him. “They’re a great bunch. You’re gonna fit right in, here.”

There it was again, that blind optimism he’d seen so much of this morning. _You don’t even know me_ , Finn thought.

“I hope so,” he said instead, returning the smile. He was contemplating what else he might say when a damp snuffling at his calf made him jump. “What—” The orange and white dog ceased sniffing his leg and looked up at him with big, dark eyes, then licked its snout.

“This is Beebee, short for Beebee-Eight,” Poe said, and the dog whisked its tail over the carpet upon hearing its name. It trotted across to Poe and parked itself on top of his shoe. “She’s my best buddy.”

Finn was coming to the realization that he’d have to learn to speak Dog. It wasn’t that he disliked them—he just hadn’t been exposed much. Some people intuitively understood animals, and some didn’t. He fell squarely into the latter category.

“She likes making the rounds, visiting everyone. She’s sorta the office mascot,” Poe said proudly, and Finn caught Wes rolling his eyes. “But if she ever bothers you, just say ‘Go home, Beebee,’ and she will. Or ‘Go home, Beebee, you’re drunk,’ which is what someone on my team thought would be funny to teach her.”

“The same person who taught Artoo to respond to ‘Fuck off, Artoo,’ actually,” Wes said, glancing up from the tablet. Artoo raised his head expectantly.

“Not Jess?” Finn asked, looking between the two men.

Poe snorted. “No, but I’m sure she was complicit. We’re talking about Snap Wexley—his desk is across from hers, but he’s almost always working in the lab these days.”

“Got it,” Finn said, nodding.

“Brilliant, sarcastic, likes 70s rock and energy drinks. You should come by and meet him sometime, he’s great.”

“Definitely,” Finn agreed. He wondered if Poe really thought every single person at Resistance was great, or if he was just a generally positive guy who was possibly, occasionally, also a little high. Both hypotheses seemed unlikely, but if he had to lay odds, he’d bet on the first.

Wes handed the tablet back to Poe. “Yeah, something seems off. Let’s circle back in, say, 15? I’ll grab Mischa and Danielle and meet you in Romulus. First, I’m gonna drop Franklin off at H.R., grab some coffee.”

“Sounds good. Nice to meet you Franklin, see you around soon.” The croissant went back into Poe’s mouth and he toasted Finn with his mug, then squeezed past them on his way elsewhere.

Jess’s cube was nearby. She had headphones on, so Finn waved to get her attention, then collected his briefcase from the corner. Wes snapped his fingers and Artoo followed them out. “Normally for your first day I’d take you to lunch, but I’ve got a crazy schedule today, sorry. And Asoka’s in Houston this week, so…”

“No problem,” Finn said hastily. He didn’t want to waste his boss’s time with a trip to Subway, or whatever. He’d also brought his own lunch.

“I’ll just give you the corporate card and you can grab a few people. They don’t all have to be from our team, either, so long as you keep it to four or five. Have them take you into town and introduce you to the good spots—just don’t go crazy.”

Finn blinked in surprise. He thought about the sandwich and carrots in his briefcase, and the kindness displayed to him over the course of a few hours. Licking his lips, he searched for a response.

“That’s really generous, thank you,” he replied honestly. “If it’s okay, I might wait until later in the week? When I know a few more people?”

“Of course,” Wes said with a congenial shrug.

Finn sat in K.K. Connix’s office for the next hour, filling out tax forms and waiting while she made photocopies of his important documents. The entire time, he waited with sweaty palms and a heart working double-time from anxiety. _Everything’s fine_ , he thought. _This is just a formality; the name already cleared_. “Franklin” also knew they’d checked his “references” before they made him the offer.

K.K. snapped his photo, then pulled out a card reader and made his badge while he waited. “You’re all set,” she said finally, handing him a lanyard. “If you have any questions, my door’s always open.”

Finn thanked her, and navigated his way successfully back to his desk. Honestly, even the relative privacy of his cube was something of a relief. He was holding onto ten different emotions at once, and it was overwhelming.

He just...needed a break from people telling him that so-and-so was _great_ and he’d _fit right in_. It wasn’t even noon yet, and while grateful, he was also feeling worn.

On his desk was a Resistance-logo mousepad for his wireless mouse, a potted cactus, and a big monitor. His chair was surprisingly comfortable. The lighting was nice.

...The bathroom soap dispenser was empty, so that was something; no organization was perfect, after all. In the mirror above the sink, Finn watched his smile grow and grow until he was beaming at himself like a total dork.

Maybe he’d bring a bottle of hand soap tomorrow.

At noon exactly, Finn locked his computer and set off for the kitchen. The place was pretty busy, with people scattered at tables, in line to use the microwaves, and pulling their lunches out of fridges. Scanning the room, he noticed Rey sitting by herself near a window. She didn’t appear to be purposefully alone—otherwise, why stay in the kitchen—just devoid of a lunch companion other than an e-reader.

“Hey,” he greeted, standing across from her. “Just got my badge. Jess said you might be able to show me around the lab? I know you’re probably really busy, I’d just—whenever you have time, I’d love for you to—I’d love to see it. All.”

She looked surprised by the request, setting down her Kindle and a half-eaten banana on its peel. “...I can make time tomorrow. Should I come fetch you in the afternoon?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Finn grinned. “I’m free anytime after three. Oh, and I sit over by Brigitte Laurent, if you know where she is.”

Rey smiled back at him. It was a modest smile, but it changed the character of her face entirely. “I’ll find my way.”

He thought about asking to eat lunch with her, but something told him that might be too much. Instead, he went back to his desk and ate in relative peace, flicking through Reddit on his phone.

True to Poe’s word, Beebee-ate(?) came jingling by while Finn was finishing his carrots. Rather than continuing her rounds, the dog came in and sat at his feet.

“I don’t think dogs like carrots,” Finn told her. “Do you like carrots? Does Poe feed you carrots?” He dropped half of one on the floor, and she ignored it completely. “Go home, Beebee-Ate.”

She ignored that too.

“Go home, Beebee-Ate, you’re drunk.”

Still no response. He lowered his voice and asked, “...Fuck off?”

That worked.


	2. Chapter 2

By 3:45 on his second day, Finn had been called into three impromptu meetings. He paid close attention to who was updating on which topics, took copious notes, and nodded at the right intervals. He also, admittedly, fretted about the possibility Rey might come by his desk while he wasn’t there.

What if she missed the explanatory sticky note he’d left under his nameplate? Or the ones on his chair or monitor? What if Rey thought Finn had forgotten about her, and was, right that second, calling her cute ex-boyfriend to see if he was free that night?

“John Utini’s team said they’d get us the new restraining bolts by Friday,” said Greg.

“I’ll add that to the dependencies column,” Finn replied to Greg’s latest redundant comment. (His teammate Lindsey later mentioned they sometimes called Greg “Legolas” because he liked to state the obvious. Finn chuckled knowingly, pleased to understand a reference without Googling it, for once.)

He waited a moment to see if anyone else had a note for discussion, and when it became apparent that Greg just wanted to have the last word, Finn closed his laptop with a decisive click. “Okay, sounds like that’s it. I’ll schedule a follow-up for Thursday.”

Darting out the door, Finn lengthened his stride, taking a zigzagging path back to his desk to avoid slow walkers.

The sticky note by his nameplate was still there, but the one on his chair had fallen writing-side down. Finn picked it up and frowned at it.

“Oh, you’re back,” said the most lovely voice behind him, making him twitch. The note fluttered out of Finn’s hands and affixed itself to his shoe. Apparently, Rey was _silent_ when she wanted to be. “I was just about to head out again. Would you like that tour of the lab, now?”

“Yes! That would be—now would be perfect, thanks.” Finn set his laptop on his desk and hastened to her side. In general, he followed polite walkway etiquette and passed people single-file, but in this particular situation, manners ceded to shoulder-checking people out of the way.

“Do you spend all day out there?” He asked Rey.

“A lot of us have workstations inside, but we’re rarely there. I’ve been at the big CNC lathe or testing electrical fittings for three days straight.”

“Huh, that...sounds really boring,” Finn confessed. He preferred his laptop, soft-hands work, to jobs that required protective accessories. Still, Rey rewarded him with a wry smile that he happily returned. “But I take it you really enjoy it?”

“I do,” she replied. “I like machines—design, fabrication, testing, from start to finish. It’s quite satisfying to build something that can withstand such extreme conditions.”

Finn shielded his eyes as they stepped outside. The short path between office space and lab was covered, not that it mattered much. West Texas on a summer afternoon came with its own set of extreme conditions.

Rey held her badge against the proximity reader on the lab doors, and Finn returned to the world of air conditioning with a quiet sigh of relief. ”That’s cool,” he said of her motivation. “Hey, why does your badge have a purple star? Is it because you’re a lead?”

Her slightly impish look was adorable. “Actually, I’m assigned to a top-secret special project, but most of the company isn’t privy to the details. I’m afraid I can’t discuss it more than that.”

“Oh, of course,” said Finn, _exceedingly_ curious now. He donned the safety glasses, shoe covers, and bright orange safety vest she handed over. It seemed a little ridiculous, but he wasn’t going to buck company policy on his second day. Rey pulled on a set of shoe covers, but left her own glasses and a cleansuit hanging on a peg under her name.

The labs—or shop, depending on who you asked—didn’t seem all that different from First Order’s, barring the obvious differences in scope and scale.

They were built up from an old manufacturing plant, the main reason for the location, with nearly 55,000 sq ft of floor space and a roof three storeys up. The inside was fluorescent-bright, massive lights reflecting off the gleaming white tile. Walkways, siding, load-bearing beams, and some of the exposed rafters were painted a garish orange. And of course it was loud, but the echoing racket here was composed from every kind of noise—machinery, shouting, music, laughter.

Resistance Rockets lived up to its name by specializing in propulsion, mostly reusable rockets and resupply contracts, rather than chasing suborbital tourism or manned spaceflight. As for said rockets and engines, they weren’t just keeping up, but outpacing much of the competition. Musk and Bruno and Drake hadn’t managed to drum them out yet.

Resistance was small, but they had moxy. They had guts. In hindsight, Finn realized it was pretty obvious why that resonated with him. He just hoped they stayed off FO’s radar.

First Order, with its endless funding and connections, wasn’t exactly subtle about wanting more. Finn’s ex-employer clearly wanted it _all_. The executives and board members were set on monopolizing whole sectors of aerospace and space manufacturing, plus anything else they could get their claws into. And yet, Finn doubted most shareholders knew just how ruthless, how cutthroat, the leadership could be. How he noticed when others apparently didn’t, or why it never bothered his coworkers, he might never understand.

He followed Rey across the expansive main floor, pausing to peek into the dedicated workspaces created by half-wall partitions. The usual fabrication and machining equipment was lined up against the walls, enormous lathes and mills placed strategically beside truck-sized assembly stations. A lot of the machines on the main floor had stairs so you could reach the upper components. Various mechanical and electromagnetic test rigs, and a big thermal vacuum chamber, dominated the center of the floor.

It was clear where Rey’s secret project was: roughly a quarter-acre at the far end was sealed off behind a set of well-secured doors and another badge reader. Finn motioned to them. “I take it your project is behind those?”

“Yes,” said Rey, pausing to sweep stray aluminum shavings into a bin. Finn knelt to pick up a few curls himself, then stretched to pull a wrench out from under a workbench.

“We have a number of dedicated machines, but since the larger milling equipment is out here, we occasionally have to clear the floor or work at night,” Rey continued.

Finn’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”

Rey turned to him with a look of mild surprise. “Where did you work before?”

“First Order,” he replied. “But things were really...segregated there. You did what you were assigned to do, and kept your head down. I only ever saw the parts of the lab that pertained to my specific projects.” _At least, I was supposed to._ His heart thumped hard against his ribs. He looked down rather than at Rey, and brushed some fluff off his knees.

“That sounds a bit oppressive.”

Finn looked across the buzzing shop floor at the machinery and orange railings, at the people focused on their work. People from around the world sporting esoteric t-shirts and neon hair and strangely competitive mustaches. “Yeah, it’s really different here,” he understated. It felt a little like college, actually. His First Order scholarship didn’t allow him to live on campus or do much outside the program, but the main campus library was another world by itself.

His slowly spreading grin warmed his cheeks. “I think I’m gonna like it. How ‘bout you?”

In response to Finn’s question, Rey stopped to look up at the logo and slogan printed on the far wall. Her tone imparted a certain reverence to the answer. “It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever been a part of. It’s meaningful.”

“Meaningful,” Finn repeated softly, following her gaze. “Even when you’re testing electrical fittings for three days?”

Her laugh was a tiny huff, but she smiled directly at him. They might’ve stood in silence for another few seconds had it not been for the surprising burst of profanity behind one of the test rigs. Finn craned his neck in an effort to locate the source.

“That’s probably Jun Li,” Rey explained nonchalantly. She started back toward the entrance. “Come on, I’ll escort you out. I should get back to work.”

“Sure thing,” said Finn, hiding his mild disappointment.

When he stopped to take off the shoe covers, safety goggles, and stylish orange vest, Rey tapped the laminated sign on the wall beside him. It was the standard OSHA poster displaying the number of days since a workplace accident had occurred—except, it didn’t say workplace accident. Someone had written, “since Jun Li had an accident” instead. The man’s badge photo was taped to the poster with My Little Pony band-aids.

A woman in coveralls nudged in front of Finn and Rey to replace “6 days” with a big fat zero garnished with a frown. With a wordless sigh, she capped the whiteboard marker, detached the first-aid kit from the wall, and strode off in the direction of continued cursing.

———————————-

The drive home took 26 minutes in “rush hour” traffic. Coming from Arkanis, Finn could have cried.

 _Franklin_ had signed an 11-month lease at a tiny apartment complex set two blocks back from one of D’Qar’s main roads. He’d picked it partly because the owner was a gruff older guy who still seemed suspicious of the internet. It meant the place wasn’t advertised or price-checked online, so the rent was cheaper than everything else in the area. Not that D’Qar was expensive to begin with, but it never hurt to pad his savings account.

The other reason Finn settled for the dingy carpet, 60s light fixtures, and ancient washer and dryer was that they reminded him of his first-ever apartment back in Arkanis. That place hadn’t been anything special and neither was this, but his new-old apartment came equipped with a familiar musty odor at a time when much of his life, including his own name, was distinctly _unfamiliar_.

Luck and timing scored him the upstairs corner unit for $75 extra a month. It was a pittance in exchange for not hearing his neighbor stomp around all night, and for having just two shared walls. All the windows faced east or south, which would help a lot with summer sunsets.

His front door ground against the frame, but the solution was simple: lift the knob and press his weight against the panel to close it. There was always a trick with older doors; something else that was familiar.

The only serious drawback were the window AC units, one each in the living and bedroom. The beat up metal boxes were old enough to lack thermostats, meaning the AC was either on or off, all or nothing, freezing or baking. After leaving the air on low all day, Finn’s place was a refrigerator—which, actually felt pretty good after the drive. He’d nearly murdered his car trying to pump enough cold air through the cabin to keep from sweating through his shirt.

Dropping his briefcase at the door, Finn fell to his knees before the living room AC and held his face an inch away from the vents for a solid minute. Good thing he was saving money on rent, because his power bills were gonna be through the roof. He felt a pang of guilt over his newly increased contribution to global warming. Maybe he could replace a bunch of old lightbulbs somewhere.

The knock on his door scared the _shit_ out of him, because neither Franklin nor Finn really knew anyone in town yet.

His thoughts leapt to hiding in the bedroom, except _his car was out there, his car was out there in plain sight,_ and sure he had a new license plate, but—

Whoever it was knocked again. Finn counted to ten before crawling to the door and rising just enough to look through the peephole.

It was his new landlord, alone.

 _Of course it is_ , Finn thought, trying and failing to be annoyed with himself for overreacting. He took a deep breath before cracking the door open, shielding himself behind it.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Effen,” said Mr. Plutt. “I just came by to see how you were settling in.”

“Oh, thanks--I’m good. Everything’s great. Just unpacking boxes, y’know.” Finn smiled, glad he hadn’t opened the door wider. He didn’t exactly have oodles to unpack, given the dimensions of his car. He was sleeping on an air mattress for the time being.

His landlord nodded. “Noticed your window units were running all day.”

Ah, the real reason for the visit. That, and probably a little snooping. Mr. Plutt seemed like a snooping kind of guy.

“Right, yeah, yeah.” Finn curtailed his vigorous nodding before he hurt himself. “I didn’t want my place to be boiling when I got home. Is that—is that okay? I mean, don’t other people leave them on?”

Mr. Plutt shook his head in a tutting fashion. It was vaguely threatening on a man his size. “You know, if you leave them on too long, they ice over, and then you’ve got a real mess on your hands and no AC at all.”

Finn’s brows drew together. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“As it happens, I’d be happy to come by around five o’clock to turn them on before you get home. It’s one of the many services I provide for my residents,” Mr. Plutt replied casually.

Finn briefly opened his mouth, then wisely shut it again. “That’s nice of you, but I think—,” he finally started.

Mr. Plutt leaned more of his weight against the door, bringing his face closer to Finn’s. “You’d save a bundle on electricity, and—hmm, I’d only charge you a dollar a day, which is less than I ask from other tenants.”

For half a second, Finn actually considered it, but the way the big man’s fingers gripped the edge of the door panel and the look in his eyes settled it. “Look, I appreciate the offer, it’s very generous. But I’m sort-of a private person. I’ll just leave the AC off during the day, all right? That way no icing. I can handle the heat when I get home.”

The noise Mr. Plutt made, Finn suspected, was the closest to a harrumph he’d ever hear in the modern world.

“All right, then. If you want to throw away your money.”

“Thank you again,” said Finn, leaning his own weight against the door now. “Ever so kind of you to stop by. I’ll see you when I drop off my next rent check, first thing in the morning on the 31st.”

He used the lift-push trick to shut the door properly, then locked the doorknob. After waiting a moment for Mr. Plutt to walk away, he locked the deadbolt, and with a glance at the chewed-up doorjamb, he slid the chain into place too.

Suddenly, his apartment seemed a lot less appealing.

“Shit,” he sighed, sliding down the wall. He took a minute to just breathe. “You need to get a grip...also a bed,” he declared to the empty living room.

Clambering to his feet, Finn grabbed his personal laptop off the kitchen counter where it’d been charging, then plopped back down on the floor.

 _Nearest IKEA_ , he typed in. Dallas, almost eight hours away.

 _Nearest Wal-Mart_ was more promising.

“You’re in the land of the devil, Finn,” he steeled himself. “And you need towels.” He should probably stop talking to himself, too, but even with an apartment full of furniture, he hadn’t managed that.

He grabbed his wallet out of his briefcase, glancing across the twilight emptiness of the apartment one more time before locking up. “Okay,” he said with a nod. He was good. Everything was fine.

In the Civic, keys in the ignition and sweat beading on his forehead, Finn closed his eyes. In a minute he’d probably suffocate or die from heat stroke. But the funny thing was, being shut inside the silent sauna of his car somehow gave him a brief respite from all the other noise in his life. “Okay,” he breathed out again, then started the engine.

———————————-

He’d been scowling at an uncooperative CFD model for probably far too long when the Slack notification popped up. The little animation caused Finn to blink, and consequently, rediscover the wonderful sensation of lubricating one’s eyes.

WesleyA: _You in the middle of something? They could use you in Vulcan (on the east side) for a post-mortem._

FranklinE: _No problem, be right there_

Why they wanted him was the hundred dollar question. Finn crossed to the other side of the office and started scanning the meeting rooms for the right name. Finding it, he slipped inside as quietly as possible—straight into a non-sequitur.

“—kind of carnage since Snap’s kids put all those forks in the food processor,” said a man Finn didn’t know, visibly cringing at whatever was being presented on a big monitor up front. He wasn’t the only person looking pained.

If they were post-morteming the spaghettied strands of metal and curls of burnt wiring on screen, Finn could understand why.

“They do enjoy doing science,” Snap responded with a single shake of his head. “But even my kids couldn’t achieve that level of utter, soul-crushing destruction.”

“Yet,” muttered a dark-skinned woman under her breath.

“Shut up,” groaned another man, taking off a worn green baseball cap to briefly rest his head on the conference table. “Where’s our loaner PM?” He asked into the wood.

“Relax, JoJo.”

“Uh...here,” Finn said, more quietly than he intended and after clearing his throat. As a group, the room’s occupants swiveled in their chairs to look at him.

“Franklin! Come on in.” Mr. Dameron, Poe, smiled brightly at him from the far side of the table, beckoning him forward even though all the chairs at the table were occupied. Part of the _floor_ near the table was occupied; Beebee-Ate thumped her tail when she saw him. The unknown dog next to her ignored him, which Finn had come to expect.

“Everyone, this is Franklin. Franklin, everyone. We’ll go ‘round the table and do introductions later. For now,” he gestured to the screen, “We’re in the middle of a post-mortem and could really use your help writing it all up—if you’re okay with us borrowing you. Think of it as your first chance to see how Resistance handles it when something goes wrong.”

“Terribly, terribly wrong—”

Smart-ass’s neighbor to the right smacked his arm. Finn was grateful when the thwap and subsequent “hey!” shifted everyone’s attention off him. Quietly, he lowered himself into an overflow chair in the back corner.

“Quick recap for Franklin,” Poe said. “This was the third practical test of new casing for Jules, our solid engine, out on the horizontal stand. The modeling looked good, everything started fine, and then—” he said, with a helpless gesture at the paused video on screen.

“Well, everything _looked_ good on the stand,” said a balding man in a bright blue shirt.

“No problems taking it off the truck?” asked Poe’s NASA buddy, Iolo.

Blue Shirt shook his head. “None. We had a little trouble loosening some stand clamps due to the heat, but we quadruple-checked them after for that exact reason. I guess we can, what, quintuple-check them?”

“Yeah, we’d better.” Poe had leaned back and was squinting thoughtfully at the table. “Was Jules sitting on the truck that whole time?”

It was a young man with a handlebar mustache who answered him. “No, we’d offloaded already, because we thought everything was fine. Didn’t know about the clamps. ...Shit, why?”

“You were at the site? On the concrete or asphalt?” Poe asked.

Around the table, people straightened up in interest. Even Beebee-Ate sat up.

“Blacktop. For at least 20 minutes,” replied Mustache, looking chagrined.

“How hot was it yesterday, 107? Someone Google that on asphalt,” said Poe.

JoJo, of the green baseball cap, lay both hands flat on the table. “Guys—”

“167 on asphalt,” replied Blue Shirt, faster than Finn would’ve expected. “About 75 C.”

“Could it—”

“Guys!” Without looking, JoJo jabbed a finger at the screen. “Rockets, guys. We made a rocket,” he said slowly. “Our most conservative range for heat failure _starts_ at 390 C.”

Everyone deflated at, ironically, being brought down to earth. Slouching resumed.

But Finn had stopped typing. Some instinct, some intuition, was rising through his subconscious. When it broke the surface, he could have stayed quiet—two months ago, he would have, would have kept his head down. But now he needed to know. They might all need to know.

Finn raised his gaze to address the room. “Was it all molded and assembled here?”

JoJo answered. “We got a few parts from Sienar-Jaemus. Why?”

His throat closed up for a moment, although Finn gave no outward sign. _Because they sell almost exclusively to First Order._ “But you don’t normally use them?”

“Normally we use Corellia, but they’ve had a massive backlog since Scaled Composites acquired them.”

Sweat prickled at his temples, but the confidence in Finn’s voice belied his cautious words. “I’m new, so I’m probably way off base—but is it possible Sienar-J screwed up the epoxy? Cured it at the wrong temp? Is that something you could check for?”

JoJo dropped his elbows on the table and blew out a sigh, although it sounded more resigned than frustrated. “I’ve got two more pieces, so...yeah, we could check ply orientation and make sure the resin is prepreg. That’d make all the difference.” He closed his eyes briefly. “But it’s a long shot—a really long one. Not only are we talking about professionals making a completely boneheaded mistake, but a composite breaking down at 75 C is almost unheard of.”

“...What if it was already delaminated?” Poe asked, turning to a woman with short black pigtails. “Rose, who did the pre-check? Nevermind, don’t answer that,” he waved away his words. “Just be sure they did more than a tap test. Emphasize that nobody’s in serious trouble, but we need to know.”

Rose, now pale, nodded tightly.

Finn grimaced at his keyboard. They all must know that Rose, and likely her whole team, would be fired and escorted from the building by five o’clock. For Poe to pretend otherwise was strangely disappointing. He hadn’t pegged the guy as duplicitous.

Snap put forth the next logical question. “Jules was in the lab ninety percent of the time, and watched like a hawk the other ten. What could’ve possibly hit hard enough to cause fractures?”

Mustache’s lips pursed in thought. “Couldn’t have been a rock on the drive over. We weren’t going fast enough.”

“I got nothing,” Blue Shirt said after a moment. “Lyla?”

“Nope,” said the dark-skinned woman, who was twirling a pencil—an honest-to-god pencil—through her fingers. She was adept at it.

“...A wrench,” Finn murmured suddenly, surprising even himself. He didn’t have a chance to evaluate his second hunch of the day as the person closest to him turned around.

“What was that?”

Finn bit the inside of his lip. “I found a wrench underneath one of the workstations yesterday. Pretty far under—like it had been kicked, or ricocheted. I thought it was weird.”

“So someone dropped it,” Iolo said.

“No. My people would have noticed, and they would have told me,” Rose said with conviction. “Especially if it hit anything important.”

“...What if it wasn’t a person?” Finn asked, thinking about brushing off his knees afterward. “I saw little downy bits in the area, like feathers. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask,” he said, stomach sinking.

“We’ve had birds get in before,” said Rose. “It’s rare, but it’s happened.”

“Hold on, I don’t follow. Not unless you’re actually suggesting that a bird dropped a wrench on Jules,” Iolo said dryly.

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Poe replied with amusement, eyebrow quirked. “Birds like shiny stuff. Maybe this was a really strong bird, trying to carry it back to its nest.”

“A lonely, klepto crow, trying to woo the bird in the mirror,” contributed Smart-Assed Guy. Finn should probably learn the rest of their names when the meeting was over.

“Exactly how big was this wrench?” Snap turned to Finn, who proceeded to measure it out with his hands.

“Ah,” said Snap. “A pretty fucking big wrench.”

“Language,” said Poe. “But you’re right. Something that heavy could legitimately do enough damage, especially if it fell out of the rafters and landed wrenchy-side down.”

They all looked to Jojo as he seemed to consider it, setting aside his (justified) skepticism for the time being. After a moment, he brought up one more point. “Okay...under that level of stress, if a composite is delaminated, it fails _spectacularly_. Spectacular, like—” With his hands, he sketched out something crumbling into pieces and plummeting to the ground, complete with sound effects.

Eyebrows rose. Jojo kept talking.

“—we’re talking tiny slivers everywhere, and—”

Poe clicked back through a few pictures.

“—yep, okay, I see it now,” he switched tracks halfway through.

“How long to test the resin on the other two pieces?” Poe asked him.

“Maybe two or three hours. We’ll do it today.” Jojo swiveled his chair to address a slightly dazed Finn. “Frank, if by some crazy chance you’re right, you just saved us days or even weeks of barking up the wrong trees and tearing our hair out.”

Everyone else at the table fixed him with their own gazes. Finn felt his eyes widen under their silent scrutiny.

“Can you believe it’s this guy’s first week?” Snap asked, jabbing his thumb at him.

At the head of the table, Poe leaned his weight on his forearms to look straight at Finn. His grin was an inexplicable blend of proud relative and kid gifted with a new swear word. “Well, shit, Franklin. Welcome to the team.”

A few people chuckled and shot him a thumbs-up; two said, “nice work.” Finn hooked an ankle around his chair in case he actually started floating.

They used the rest of the hour to debrief on recorded data. Though he tried to take notes, Finn knew if asked later, he wouldn’t be able to decipher a word. He also couldn’t stop smiling, not that he tried very hard.

As they stood up to leave, Iolo surprised Finn by clapping him on the arm. “So, brisket next Friday. Mild, hot, tangy, or no sauce?”

“Think carefully before you speak. You will be judged on your answer,” Snap said solemnly on his other side.

“I’m actually a sweet sauce kind of guy,” Finn answered, still a little dazed.

“You have chosen poorly.” Snap’s deadpan reply came swiftly. Iolo made a disgusted face. Finn smiled and shrugged absently.

Back at his desk, Finn plopped down in his comfortable chair and started scanning email subject lines. He found himself staring blankly at his cactus when the realization hit: he hadn’t stopped to think about his answer. No flipping through the options to find something neutral; no running it through the filter of office politics; no worrying that he’d be labeled _outside the norm_. He’d just...told the truth.

Maybe barbeque sauce was inconsequential (although he’d heard things about Texans), but Finn had been weighing and measuring and overthinking things for years: what he said, what he wore, the sports and TV shows he claimed to watch or not watch. His spirit animal? He’d probably say orca, but in truth, Finn was a chameleon. Standing out at First Order was a bad idea. Here...

 _You’ll be judged by your answer_ , Snap had said.

A week ago, Finn might have believed him.

With a growing smile, he leaned over to his cactus. “Hey, I’m the new Flight Dynamics guy,” he whispered. “Name’s Franklin, but call me Finn.”

 

\-------

 

Slack chimed about an hour later.

 

JessP: _Dude how can you like sweet sauce, I thought we were friends_

FranklinE: _...Sorry?_

JessP: _Whatever scofflaw. I guess you can still sit next to us_

JessP: _But the mild sauce bloc will never concede_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months.... :\ Work esploded, from ~35 to ~60 hours a week. When you're a glacially slow writer, as I am, who edits endlessly, as I do, this results in annoying delays. (Also, lots of writing furtively in dark meeting rooms.) This chapter required an enormous amount of research, as well.
> 
> I apologize for the large chunks of exposition. This stuff is neat, and you should look it up, and certainly correct me if I got something wrong. The next chapter is mostly Finn bonding with people. I'll try to keep the level of mushiness realistic, but once I get some whiskey in me, it's over.


	3. Chapter 3

“Franklin—Finn—man, c’mon,” Jess said, resting her beer on top of Finn’s cube. “We’re about to head outside.”

 

“Only the masochists,” said Iolo, coming up behind her. “The rest of us are staying here, in the AC, until at least seven.”

 

“The whole point of a barbecue is to sit around outside getting sloppy over ribs,” Jess replied patiently. “It’s low-80s and dropping. You’ll survive.”

 

Iolo pointed at himself. “From Anchorage.” 

 

“Jesus, you moved to the wrong place. Or the right one. But we’re taking the coolers outside now; don’t be a wuss.” She turned back to Finn. “Scofflaw, c’mon, I know your test isn’t for another two weeks.”

 

“Yeah, okay, just a second—”

 

“Don’t make me administer a very sweaty suplex,” said Snap, coming up behind the two people already framed in Finn’s cube entrance. True to his word, Snap’s collar was damp and his face ruddy. The smell of charcoal and sausage wafted off him as he handed his apron over to Jess. “6:15, your turn at the ‘cue.” 

 

“Right-oh,” Jess acknowledged, draping the apron over her neck with one hand. The other held a solo cup of beer with her name scrawled on it.

 

“Dudes, c’mon,” said Jason, strolling with two other people down the aisle to the left of Finn’s now _extremely busy_ cube space.

 

Finn gave in with a decisive exhale, shutting his laptop and pointedly pushing it away. “Okay, I’m coming.” 

 

As it was the Friday before Labor Day, leaving the building felt marginally less like walking into a dry sauna than it had the past few months. Not much, but the earlier sunset helped.

 

The air smelled distinctly of beef and pork. Under a single large pavilion, people were laughing and grabbing drinks out of two enormous coolers on wheels. Some were already seated at the half-dozen wooden picnic tables, others standing by the long collapsible table set with a gingham vinyl tablecloth and all the “fixins.”

 

Jess took over a charcoal grill from the guy who’d been tasked with watching it while Snap went to fetch his relief. Iolo peeled off to grab a drink from one of the coolers and Finn trailed along after him, picking out an interesting looking bottle of soda. He’d grown accustomed to many things, but he still wasn’t sure about drinking beer at work.

 

Iolo stuck around the cooler to talk to someone Finn didn’t know, which was fine. Finn was pleased to see Rey at a picnic table with her shop friend, Rose—who _hadn’t_ been fired because Resistance didn’t handle things that way.

 

Rey smiled up at him and Finn’s heart...fluttered. “Can I join you?”

 

“You may,” Rey replied pleasantly, in her usual semi-formal manner. Her choice of words and inflection often sounded a bit British, and Finn had been meaning to ask her about it. Maybe later.

 

He stepped over the table’s weathered cedar bench and sat next to Rose, suppressing a wince when his knee collided with the crossbeam. “Hey, Finn,” Rose greeted. “I saw the updated specs for Octavia come in earlier. Seems like she’s coming along great.”

 

“I think so,” Finn agreed, twisting the cap off his soda. “Our second test is scheduled in two weeks, and we’re about a day behind right now.”

 

Rose’s jaw dropped, mostly for effect. “Only a _day_? That’s practically unheard of.”

 

“Yeah? Well that’s good to know.” Finn preened a little on the inside. Unsurprisingly, even an hour’s delay would have been unacceptable at First Order.

 

“Seriously, that’s—” She broke off, straightening up to see better. “Hold on, looks like the first batch of burgers is done. I’m gonna get one before the hungry hordes descend.” Finn budged over so Rose could clamber over the bench with a minimum of grace. “I think the veggie patties are on now,” she called back.

 

Finn turned back to Rey. They’d been seeing more of each other lately, but rarely one-on-one. He was curious about so much that he didn’t know where to start, but he did know better than to grill her. “So… How’s that secret project coming along?”

 

Finn was responsible for Rey’s amused little smile on a regular basis. Its effect on him hadn’t diminished.

 

“Still secret. But, it’s going well. We’ve made a lot of progress in the last few months. In fact, I think,” she hesitated. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t say anything more.”

 

“Fair enough,” Finn said affably, _well_ aware that secret projects should at times stay secret. He took a swig of soda while he considered what to ask Rey next. At the same time, he was idly scanning the crowd of Resistance employees. His attention caught on a cluster of four that included Iolo. All four men were wearing chunky black glasses, faded skateboarding tees, dark jeans, and black Converse. Finn was amused; attire at First Order amounted to a uniform, and these guys unwittingly had one, too.

 

Of course, Iolo caught Finn staring and gestured for him to come over _._

 

Finn pantomimed getting a burger—or a drink, or directions, anything really—back at him. And because honest men ( _now_ _you’re honest?_ ) followed through; “Be right back, gonna grab a burger,” he explained to Rey.

 

She seemed caught off guard. “Oh—okay. Could you please let me know if the veggie patties are ready?”

 

“Absolutely,” Finn said, scooting off the bench. Dutifully, he stood in the food queue behind a few people he didn’t know, who seemed to be chatting about sports.

 

Plates and plastic silverware came first. Experience had taught Finn to use two paper plates instead of one, and that hamburgers were far less likely to ruin his outfit than anything barbecue-based. Two shirts and a pair of slacks had paid the price earlier for his ignorance.

 

Also on the list of lessons: mustard potato salad and mayonnaise potato salad were _not_ the same thing, and each version had its own faction. Same for sweet and sour relish. It was best to assemble your plate quickly and quietly, then return to a table of your allies.

 

Reaching the front of the line, Finn considered the tray of warm veggie patties sitting next to the meat. The paper plates were at the opposite end of the table.

 

...He could risk the single-plate approach, with proper payload distribution.

 

“Grabbing this for someone else,” he explained to the woman behind him, as if she’d care that he took two burgers. The awkward part was ducking back into the food queue at intervals, grabbing the second bun, “fixins,” and condiments on the side. No potato salad, of course.

 

He held two more glass bottles of soda under his armpits, teeth clenched at the cold.

 

When Finn finished and turned back to the table, Rey was no longer alone; she was playing with Beebee-Eight. Finn watched the dog bow down onto it’s— _her_ front legs, tail wagging a mile a minute. Next, she rolled onto her back and kicked her legs fiercely. Apparently this was the signal for Rey to start scratching her belly.

 

At Finn’s approach, Beebee-Eight scrambled to her feet and came bounding over to him. She barked once, putting the single-plate experiment at risk for a moment; but it was a short bark that sounded almost...enthusiastic? Probably not going to bite him, then. Probably.

 

Finn set down their plates, belatedly questioning his presumption. “I hope you don’t mind, I got yours too.”

 

“Thank you, Finn, that’s very considerate.” Rey looked happy, so Finn was safe.

 

He stepped over the bench again, wincing when his knee hit the crossbeam again. When he looked to the side, Beebee-Eight was staring back at him with those big black eyes and still-wagging tail. She made a soft _whuff_ or _ruff_ -like sound.

 

Rey picked up on his confusion. “Beebee-Eight likes you.”

 

“Really?” He looked at Poe’s dog. “Sorry, I don’t speak dog.” After a pause, though, Finn added with cautious optimism, “But I like you too, Beebee-Eight.”

 

She _whuff_ ed at him again. He considered his burger for a moment. “Should I give her some of this?

 

“Probably not,” Rey said, the smile evident in her voice. “I’m sure Poe has already. Besides, if you feed Beebee, the entire pack will expect some. You’d be mobbed by dogs all evening, which I assume isn’t a party you’d especially enjoy.”

 

“Ah, yeah, no. Nothing personal, Beebee-Eight,” he added. The dog’s eyes seemed even wider than usual, glistening in an almost sad way. Finn fidgeted, banging his knee on the crossbeam for the _third time_. You’d think he’d learn.

 

Finn turned his attention back to Rey. Whereas Beebee’s eyes were huge, Finn could barely keep his cracked, the glow of sunset blinding him even through his lowered lashes. The problem was the table’s poor positioning; one side faced the setting sun directly, which had descended to their level.

 

“Want to move tables? The sun must be right in your eyes,” Rey offered.

 

“Yes, please,” he said gratefully. “Although I think they’re almost fully occupied.”

 

They were. Which, come to think of it, why wasn’t anyone else sitting at their table? Did Finn smell? And logically, Finn should just switch to Rey’s side of the table. Why would she suggest they move instead?

 

Oh god, he _must_ smell _._ The embarrassment made him squirm. Finn’s knee paid the price—audibly. _Damned_ table _._

 

“There’s also that,” Rey observed lightly, hearing the thunk. “But you know, I have an idea.”

 

Popping up with enviable ease, she crossed to Finn’s side and sat atop the table itself, facing outward with her feet on the bench. She slid her plate toward her.

 

“Care to join me?” Rey asked with a grin. Finn matched it as he followed her lead. It put the sun at their backs, shadows stretched out like licorice taffy.

 

“Do you think anyone will mind we’re sitting on the table?” He asked her, taking a pull of the new soda and grimacing. The label had mostly peeled away in the cooler. Whatever it was, it was unpleasant.

 

“Yes, we’re very concerned with etiquette here,” Rey said, unusually dry. Finn laughed.

 

Beebee-Eight, having wandered off for half a minute, returned to investigate their new seating arrangement. “Luke’s” dog, Artoo, and Jess’s dog, Ivy, had tagged along.

 

Finn raised an eyebrow as all three dogs sat by Rey’s feet where they rested on the bench. “I don’t get it—you’re not even feeding them. Dogs just really like you, huh?”

 

“They tend to. I like most animals, and I think they sense that,” Rey said matter-of-factly, reassembling her veggie burger. She developed a cute little frown when the lettuce refused to stay in place. Artoo, who was tall enough sitting to see her plate, edged closer and sniffed hopefully.

 

“All right, you mongrels, that’s enough begging.”

 

Both Finn and the dogs looked up at Poe, who was striding toward them, chipper as always.

 

“Hey, Rey, Finn—how’s it going? Rey, we’re getting low on veggie patties, so I wanted to make sure you got one.” The man came to a stop with his hands on his hips.

 

“I did, thank you, Poe. Actually, Finn got one for me,” she tacked on hastily, almost blurting it out. Finn filed that away for later analysis.

 

“Oh, uh—great! Well Finn, if you want another beef burger, don’t let these thugs scare you.” He laughed and motioned to the growing crowd of canines. Beebee-Eight was sprinting circles around Poe’s legs, accidentally taking out some fluffy poodle mix in the process. Finn blinked in surprise when a tiny, mousey-looking one he’d never seen before appeared from under the table.

 

“You guys need anything else?” Poe asked.

 

Finn thought about getting up himself for a napkin, but it turned out that Ivy was happy to clean the blob of mayonnaise off his shoe.

 

Both Finn and Rey shook their heads and thanked him. Poe nodded in satisfaction and left, no doubt to make sure his other reports had all the pickles or chips or stock options they needed. Beebee-Eight left with him.

 

“So, you’re an animal person,” Finn picked up the conversation where they’d left off. “You know, it’s pretty hard to miss that about you,” he ribbed gently. Dogs loved Rey. She ate veggie burgers. Finn had seen her tending to a sparrow after it flew into an untinted window.

 

Rey bumped him with her elbow. “All right, smart-arse. I know I’m not exactly—” Her expression turned sad for a moment, but she gathered herself and it slipped away. “Don’t tell the others, but Beebee-Eight is my favorite.”

 

“It’s hard not to like her, isn’t it?” Finn admitted. “Poe seems really nice, too.”

 

“He is.”

 

Finn glanced over at the man now holding court at a table. Iolo and Kare were sitting on either side of him. “Do you work together much?”

 

“He’s a major lead on my project—this project.” Rey tapped the star on her badge, looking thoughtful. “I appreciate working with him. Poe’s very good at what he does, and not just from a technical perspective. Not to be cliched, but he leads by example. He works hard and expects the same from us, but also shows us consideration.”

 

“I’ve had some pretty shitty bosses,” Finn contributed darkly. “He does seem to be the opposite.”

 

“Well, he can be arrogant and stubborn, which means he’s pushy with the other leads sometimes. That’s set us back before,” Rey qualified. “But I don’t know many people more passionate.”

 

“Out of curiosity, what did you mean by ‘he shows us consideration’?”

 

Rey looked down. Finn waited patiently, hands lax in his lap.

 

“He’s thoughtful, and he makes me feel included. Valued, as a person. I don’t always...connect with people,” Rey admitted, ostensibly focused on tidying the burger remnants on her plate. Her face had taken on the strangely sad character from before. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy others’ company; I do. But you’ve probably noticed, I don’t exactly fit in. It’s...isolating at times.”

 

Halfway through, Finn’s breath caught. “I know the feeling,” he said softly, memories spanning the length of his life flooding in.

 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Rey murmured under her breath. Finn almost didn’t catch it.

 

After a moment, he prompted gently, “Doubt what?”

 

Rey waved it off. “Nothing, sorry. What were we talking about?”

 

“Fitting in,” Finn said, drolly. But Rey continued to look uncomfortable, so he changed the subject back. “We were talking about Poe being a good guy, and how people here value you.” Even after months at Resistance, the thought of being valued as more than a resource seemed novel.

 

Rey hummed in assent, but declined to say anything else. It left the conversation in an almost vulnerable place, having ended with 'people here value you,' and Finn implied. They sat quietly for a time, gazing down and fidgeting with their drinks. _Ask if she wants another soda_ , Finn thought.

 

“You want to hear something?” He said impulsively, instead. He glanced at Rey in his peripheral vision, but gave her space otherwise. “I’ve never seen an episode of Star Trek. I’ve never played a Nintendo game.”

 

Rey turned her head and squinted just a tad _,_ which Finn identified as her ‘I’m listening’ pose. Shaking off the thought that cataloging her expressions might be a smidge stalker-esque at this point in their friendship, Finn barreled forward.

 

“I never had a chemistry set, never did...that thing where people hit each other with foam swords. I never had most of those quintessential growing-up-geek experiences.”

Rey’s smile turned wry. “Surely, you had more than I did. What about...Dungeons and Dragons? Or those really long strategy games?”

 

He shook his head once. “Nope.”

 

“Pokemon? Comic books?”

 

“Nope,” he said again. “I rented The Avengers, but I fell asleep before the end.”

 

She pursed her lips in thought. “What about Doctor Who?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Very funny.” Rey rolled her eyes. Her own secondhand geek was probably drying up.

 

“...Halo? Master Chef?” She asked.

 

Finn snorted, albeit not unkindly. “Master Chief. And, no.”

 

“So, neither of us did any of that?”

 

“Yep.” He grinned, tipping his bottle toward her.

 

They toasted with a clink. Finn felt a lot lighter, and he suspected Rey did, too.

 

———————————-

 

The following Monday, upon returning to his desk post-meeting, Finn found a note on his monitor.

 

Very few people at Resistance would leave a double-width sticky note rather than use Slack.

 

_Stopped by to say hello, and to see if you had lunch plans. I’ll be in the cafeteria at 12:30. Hope to see you there._

_-Rey   P.S. In case we miss each other, you should know I gave your cactus a pipette of water._

 

Finn picked up the pipette lying next to his cactus, then leaned back in his chair with a smile.

 

He left for the cafeteria at 12:25.

 

Over lunch, Rey was using a fork to scoop hummus onto a flimsy pita triangle that wasn’t designed to withstand the weight. Finn was skeptical of the whole endeavor—hummus was gross, anyway.

 

“Did you ever get your air conditioning sorted?” She asked him.

 

“Nope,” he replied bitterly, looking over his turkey sandwich. “Even mid-September, it’s like an oven when I get home. I just turn on the AC first thing and take a cold shower until it’s survivable again. I thought about buying one of those rolling units, but I don’t know how much it’d help.”

 

“Could you replace the window units with newer ones?” She asked, looking up from her food.

 

Finn shrugged. “I guess, if I knew how. Although, I have a feeling my landlord would have something unpleasant to say about it.”

 

“What if you kept the current ones, and just modified them?” Rey countered quickly, like she’d anticipated his response. “Making sure not to damage anything in the process, of course.”

 

Finn looked her squarely in the eyes, knowing cunning when he heard it. “Okay, out with it. Whatever it is you’re scheming.”

 

Rey straightened in her chair, mildly affronted. “I am _not_ scheming. Scheming implies underhandedness.”

 

Finn put up his hands in the universal gesture of mollification. “I just mean you’ve got a plan. An _artful_ one.”

 

Rey shrugged casually, as if her attention were equally divided between the conversation and digging fork-furrows in her hummus. Sure. “I thought I might help you, that’s all. I’m good with anything mechanical. Electric, solar, gas, all of it.”

 

Finn eyebrows rose. He leaned slightly across the table. “Are you volunteering to retrofit my prehistoric cooling devices?”

 

“Well, I suppose I am, if that would be useful,” she said, still a bit self-protective.

 

“Oh, oh Rey, you have _no idea_ ” he rejoiced, imagining the arctic breeze that was potentially in his future. “I would _love_ your help, especially if we can make it work without giving my landlord anything to complain about.”

 

Her grin was conspiratorial. “I think we can manage that.”                                                                             

 

“Oh _man_. Well, when’s good for you? What do I need to get?”

  
“I’ll need to look at the units first, and then we can pick up parts. How about Saturday, at...ten? Is that too early?”

 

“Perfect. Oh, my God, I can already feel it. I can feel the sweet kiss of conditioned air.”

 

“Well, we are under a vent,” said Rey.

 

“Don’t ruin for this for me.”

 

“Saturday at ten, then. Just text me your address.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short -and- devoid of rockets or action; I have brought shame upon my house. :( But I'm rusty, and had to get back into it somehow. Thank you if you're still reading, and I hope it's enjoyable.
> 
> As for the delay: I tend to roll my eyes at excuses and self-pity in author's notes, but I do think it's fair to say that I lost three loved ones in 13 months, and I -wish- I was one of you people who use writing as catharsis.
> 
> I'll be going back and fixing some inconsistencies, too. Next chapter is outlined but involves a lot of research. Here's to tumbling down the Wiki rabbit hole!

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in March of 2016 because I wanted it, and nobody else was doing it, so you have only yourselves to blame. Since then, some plot points have _actually happened_ and others have been made obsolete.
> 
> I drop way more names and concepts than actual science, because I’m a bum. Please, please, please make up for my shoddy research if you can. I could ask a bunch of friends in the industry to explain things, but in turn they’d ask why I want to know, and those conversations are the sort I won’t be ready to have until I die.


End file.
